Whereupon he took the morocco case out of Klara's hand, shut it with a snap and put it back into his pocket.
"What are you doing?" cried Klara in a fright.
"As you see, pretty one, I am putting the bracelet away for future use."
"But . . ." she stammered.
"If I can't put the bracelet on your arm myself," he said decisively, "you shan't have it at all."
"But . . ."
"That is my last word. Let us talk of something else."
"No, no! We won't talk of something else. You said the bracelet was for me."
She cast a languishing look on him through her long upper lashes; she bared her wrist and held it out to him. Leopold and his jealousy might go hang for aught she cared, for she meant to have the bracelet.
The young man, with a fatuous little laugh, brought out the case once more. With his own hands he now fastened the bracelet round Klara Goldstein's wrist. Then—as a matter of course—he kissed her round, brown arm just above the bracelet, and also the red lips through which the words of thanks came quickly tumbling.